


First Times

by ultharkitty



Category: Transformers Generation One
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-06
Updated: 2011-07-09
Packaged: 2017-10-21 02:30:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/219904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ultharkitty/pseuds/ultharkitty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><b>Summary:</b> Written for <a href="http://tfanonkink.livejournal.com/3587.html?thread=6467075#t6467075">this prompt over on the kinkmeme</a>, and set on Cybertron a long time before the war.</p><p>Prowl is about to graduate from the most prestigious Praxus academy, but he's spent so much time on his education that he hasn't given a thought to interfacing. Sure, he's had urges in that direction, but sex can hardly be important, right? Prowl's creator doesn't agree. He's wise to the ways of the world, and would rather his creation wasn't completely inexperienced. And so, he hires Smokescreen to ensure that Prowl is well instructed.</p><p><b>Content advice:</b> explicit sticky smut, coercion/dub-con (principally in terms of the situation, but also in terms of a few of Smokey's methods. Prowl isn't adverse to sex, but he's very nervous), consensual smut, Smokey as a sexual therapist/high-class prostitute.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Session 1

  
**Session 1**   


“My creator wants this,” Prowl stated. He couldn’t bring himself to look at his visitor, let alone approach him. It was mortifying that his creator had an opinion on his intimate operational status. The soliciting of a good time ‘bot was just too much.

“I know,” the newcomer responded. He stood on the threshold of Prowl’s apartment, a brightly coloured groundframe with a similar build to Prowl’s own. He smelt of fresh polish and new paint. “Your creator wants what’s best for you,” he said. “And so do I. The name’s Smokescreen.”

The scent of him caught in Prowl’s vents. It was infuriatingly pleasant. Just like his smile, Prowl thought as he finally looked up. And his doors, and his voice, and everything else about him. There was no seductive leer, no predatory grin, just an open friendliness that made Prowl feel like a tool for being the exact opposite.

“Would, um… Would you like to come in?” Prowl said.

Smokescreen’s friendly smile widened. “Sure, thanks.”

Prowl expected him to head straight to the recharge station, unfold the bunk and get down to business, but to his surprise Smokescreen went into the living area. Prowl secured the door before following – it would be worse than embarrassing if any of his neighbours or colleagues happened across this.

“Nice place you’ve got here,” Smokescreen said. “Great view.” He flashed Prowl another of his friendly smiles and gestured at the seating. “May I?”

“Um, yes, please do,” Prowl said. He loitered by the door, uncertain whether or not he should also sit. He was the host, perhaps he should fetch a drink? But Smokescreen wasn’t so much a guest as an employee. Prowl dithered, uncertain.

Smokescreen patted the seat next to him. That was a clear enough signal, but what if something happened on the seats? What if a passing flier looked their way and saw them through the window? Prowl suppressed a shudder and perched uncomfortably on the arm rest, just out of Smokescreen’s reach.

“What am I, uh…” He had no idea how to begin.

“I thought we could talk,” Smokescreen said.

“Talk?”

Another grin, and Smokescreen’s doors twitched. “Yeah,” he said, “talk.”

It took a breem before Prowl moved from the arm of the sofa to the seat, and another before he relaxed enough to uncross his legs and lean against the backrest. The proximity was strange, knowing that he was meant to interface with this mech, but not knowing exactly when or how or anything at all about it. If he was honest with himself, he wasn’t sure he wanted to know, but his creator had been adamant.

“This is good,” Smokescreen said. “You look far less worried now. See what a bit of conversation can do?”

Prowl wasn’t sure what he was meant to take from that, but he stored it anyway. Perhaps if he thought of this as training and Smokescreen as a kind of instructor then the embarrassment might be easier to bear.

* * *

Softly softly was the only way to approach a mech like Prowl. Smokey kept his body language friendly and his hands to himself. He’d need to ease this one into it, introduce him slowly to each stage, get him interested, leave him wanting more. It would be a slow process, but Smokey knew it would be satisfying.

Time for a little flattery, Smokey decided, now that Prowl was finally sitting down. A bit of chatter about his grades and his other achievements. Watch for that flicker of a smile, the slight lift to his doors.

Prowl responded well, unfolding a little part of himself to each open question. He didn’t see the point in interfacing, but he understood his creator’s concerns. He wasn’t worried about the social stigma surrounding inexperience, although he _was_ worried about the impact of such stigma on his progenitor and others of his caste. He had a high opinion of his creator, and didn’t want to be a source of shame.

It was a dangerous mix to be so loyal and yet so firm in his own beliefs. It only reinforced Smokey’s conviction that this mech would need the gentle approach.

Still, there was gentle and there was non-existent. It was all well and good that Prowl was on the sofa, but that fell a little short of the progress Smokey was hoping to make before the end of their first session.

Happily, Prowl appeared to have a similar concern. “So… How do we do this?” he said.

“Slowly,” Smokey replied. “In stages. Do you ever have your doors waxed?”

“Do I…” Prowl looked lost. “Um, yes, yes of course. It’s not something one could do by oneself…”

“May I wax your doors?”

For a moment, Smokey thought that even this might have been too quick. Prowl tensed, his lips pressed tight together and his engine giving a little stutter that would otherwise have been quite charming. But then he took a long, slow vent and nodded.

“They need doing,” he said. “What with everything else, I just haven’t had the time.”

“It’s always the first thing to slide,” Smokey commented. He gestured Prowl into the right position, and selected a cloth and some polish from his subspace. The first touch made Prowl tense again. The second elicited another delightful little stutter from his engine. But Prowl didn’t move away, and he didn’t complain. Smokey continued without pause. He worked slowly, easing the cloth along the metal, enjoying the smooth surfaces. “How does that feel?” he said.

“Like polishing?” Prowl replied, and the static in his voice was just right.

“How about this?” Smokey said, and slid his free hand up between Prowl’s left door and his back, his fingertips light on the hinge.

Prowl choked a response, then tried again. “That’s… that’s fine,” he said.

“And this?” Smokey continued his exploration, venting warm air against the back of Prowl’s neck.

“It’s… not disagreeable,” Prowl replied.

Smokey laughed. “I’ll take that as a compliment,” he said.

“I’m sorry!” Prowl spun around and Smokey had to duck to avoid a face-full of doorwing. “I didn’t mean it like that, I…”

“It’s fine,” Smokey said, giving Prowl a reassuring smile. “I know what you meant. Now how about you let me finish?”

* * *

Prowl nodded. If Smokescreen stopped now, he’d have to go around with only one door waxed, and that wouldn’t do. Besides, the polish felt, well, not exactly scintillating, but different. Not like the matter-of-fact polish he’d usually get. It was… pleasant.

So pleasant that when Smokescreen finally withdrew his hands, Prowl was a little disappointed. A little warm too, and ever so slightly tingly in certain areas.

And when he stood, his legs felt marginally less stable than before. Alarmed, he ran a quick diagnostic, but there was nothing wrong.

“How’re you feeling?” Smokescreen asked. That friendly smile was back, and Prowl couldn’t help but smile in return.

“Fine,” he said. “Thankyou.”

Smokescreen nodded, and his optics brightened just a bit. “Same time tomorrow?”


	2. Session 2

The second time, Prowl relaxed almost instantly. His doors swayed, still gleaming from the previous day’s polish, and he sat beside Smokey without prompting.

“Did you want to, um...” Prowl still couldn’t finish his questions, but the movements of his doorwings were a big enough hint.

“Later,” Smokey replied. “If we've got time. I thought we could focus on something else today.”

“All right,” Prowl said, sounding more than a little nervous.

“I’d like you to touch yourself.”

Prowl’s jaw dropped. “You’d like me to _what?_ ”

“To touch yourself,” Smokey repeated. “If you’re not comfortable doing it in here, we could always go through to your recharge area?”

Prowl obviously _wasn’t_ comfortable with the idea, and it didn’t matter what room they were in. He chose seclusion though, as Smokey thought he would. His recharge was also exactly what Smokey had expected. Utilitarian, spare, but comfortable; suited to a successful mech who’d never thought he might one day want to share. It wasn’t the place to bring a lover.

“I’m not sure about this,” Prowl said.

“That’s OK,” Smokey replied. “Just follow my lead.”

* * *

Prowl vented hard, resisting the urge to flee. It wasn’t the prospect of physical proximity that bothered him, but the idea that he’d have to touch himself. Erotically. While someone watched.

It didn’t matter who the watcher was, it was agonisingly, horrifically embarrassing.

He couldn’t do it.

But Smokescreen had got behind him, his bumper pressing against the base of Prowl’s doorwings. “Like this,” Smokescreen said, and lay his hands on Prowl’s waist.

Prowl froze. He couldn’t help it. The polish had been nice, but this was… this was a prelude to interfacing. Or masturbation, or whatever it was Smokescreen had in mind. He wasn’t sure he could go through with it.

“Put your hands on mine,” Smokescreen said, and there was something about the gust of warm air on the back of Prowl’s neck that sent a shudder all the way from his chevron to his feet and back.

He nodded, venting hard to fight the rapid rise in temperature. He didn’t think he’d ever felt so ridiculous.

Still, his creator wanted - _needed_ \- him to be prepared for the unpredictable minefield of social interfacing. He had to do this.

Prowl lay his hands gently on Smokescreen’s and waited.

“That’s it,” Smokescreen said. “Now relax.”

What he did next almost made Prowl’s legs give out. Hands weren’t meant to go there! Not other peoples’ hands! And oh it felt so good. But no! As soon as Smokescreen had stroked a path down to Prowl’s rapidly warming hips, he move up again before his palms could stray anywhere more intimate.

It was infuriating, and for a moment the frustration eclipsed the embarrassment. Until Prowl heard a most unseemly sound emerge from someone’s vocaliser and realised too late that it had come from his own.

“That’s good,” Smokescreen said. “You’re a nice build, you know that? Good angles…” His thumbs brushed Prowl’s headlights, then moved up onto his hood. With the location of Prowl’s own hands, it almost felt as though he was touching himself.

“Nice alloys,” Smokescreen continued. “Real quality construction, and you look so good.” His hands ventured down again, and Prowl bit his lip. Oh Primus, if only he’d go down far enough…

“Your turn,” Smokescreen said, and eased his hands out from underneath Prowl’s.

“I don’t know,” Prowl said, as the ridiculousness and the shame came flooding back. “I’m not…”

“You can do it,” Smokescreen whispered, and covered Prowl’s hands with his own. “I’ll show you.”

Prowl nodded. It was all right if Smokescreen was guiding him. It wasn’t like he was doing anything to himself then, least of all in front of a witness. He was just doing what he was told, following instruction for the purposes of self-improvement.

His hands slid over his armour, following curves and planes he’d followed every day as he preformed his self-maintenance. But this was different; this wasn’t clinical and it wasn’t essential. This was touch as a luxury, and each sweep of his hands brought him closer to the equipment he thought he’d never use.

A vision hit him: laying on the bunk under Smokescreen, connected just like the pictures in the manual. He shuddered and let loose another of those wholly undignified sounds. He remembered the diagrams well; how could he forget after spending the whole of the previous evening memorising the blasted thing word for word? His circuits tingled as heat gathered behind his pelvic armour.

But it was also perplexing.

He was clearly experiencing Phase 1: Preparation. But the manual hadn’t said anything about stroking. Unlocking, unclasping, revealing, pressurising, penetrating and connecting, yes, but not stroking.

He wondered what manual Smokescreen was following, and where he might obtain a copy.

“You lead,” Smokescreen said, and suddenly Prowl was in charge of his own hands.

It was as though a switch had been thrown, and everything that he’d found enjoyable before – and yes, he realised, he had actually enjoyed that – was now awkward and disconcerting.

“I don't know if I can,” he whispered.

“Sure you can,” Smokescreen whispered back. “Just do what feels good.”

A warm tingle spread over Prowl’s back, racing through his wings, and it was a moment before he realised that Smokescreen had caused it.

“What did you do?” he asked, but instead of an answer, Smokescreen did it again. This time, the tingle zipped along his spinal struts and made his head spin. “Oh Primus!” Prowl choked on the words, his vision sparking as his thermostat tripped and his fans clicked on.

He wasn’t expecting a third time, and it almost knocked him off his feet.

“You like that?” Smokescreen said, his hood pressed tight to Prowl’s back. Supporting him, Prowl realised, taking his weight. Prowl fought to steady himself, but equilibrium was difficult to attain. The heat that had gathered behind his pelvic armour had begun to generate small jolts of pleasure, and an unfamiliar pressure was building behind his interface cover.

His familiarity with the manual made it easy to identify the cause, and Prowl was suddenly curious as to what it would be like. Not just to reveal his equipment, but to touch it for a purpose other than self-maintenance, to use it to connect. To induce an overload, perhaps, although that always sounded a little dangerous.

“How are you feeling?” Smokescreen asked.

“Warm,” Prowl said without thinking. _Tingly_ , he thought, _like I’m in the middle of Phase 3_. It didn’t feel right to say it aloud. What if Smokescreen realised he’d been reading the manual? He could think Prowl was ready for something he most emphatically was not.

At least, he didn't think he was.

“Sometimes,” Smokescreen said, as he issued another of those thrilling washes of energy, “it can be really nice to touch the seams. Especially if you’re a little bit…” He leaned closer, his lips against Prowl’s audial, “…heated.”

The seams? Prowl glanced down past the curve of his hood; he couldn’t see his own hands, hidden as they were, but his lower regions burned hotly enough. Oh, he thought, _those_ seams.

Then the realisation hit him: Smokescreen couldn’t see his hands either. It couldn’t possibly look ridiculous because no-one could actually see it. His instructor would need to be sitting a few paces away for a really good view, and he wasn’t, he was pressed up against Prowl’s back in a way that made Prowl wish he could stay like that for far longer than the two joors allotted for that day’s session.

Prowl began to move his hands. It was an odd sensation, his own metal beneath them and the steady presence of Smokescreen’s hands above. It was strange to be sandwiched, each surface providing a different kind of sensation.

“How far do you want me to go?” he asked, and was astounded at his own audacity.

“As far as you like,” Smokescreen said.

Prowl recalled the phases. Pressurisation was underway, but wasn’t revealing meant to happen before pressurisation? He hadn’t yet removed the cover. Which, he thought, might be why things were beginning to get a little uncomfortable down there. Still, Smokescreen appeared to have a more comprehensive manual, in addition to his evident experience, therefore he probably knew best. Abiding by Smokescreen’s suggestion, Prowl slid a tentative finger along the side of his spike cover.

Something jarred inside and the world went momentarily black. “Oh Primus!” He leaned back, venting hard.

“Try that again,” Smokescreen said.

“Whu?” Prowl wasn’t sure that was such a good idea, and he was far from being able to articulate why. But the second touch of the seam was far less intense than the first, and he found that he could maintain a pleasurable degree of pressure without risking collapse.

Smokescreen’s engine purred. “See,” he said. “It’s good, isn’t it?” When Prowl only nodded, Smokescreen laughed softly and began to trail his hands over Prowl’s hips and the backs of his fingers. “Now, try releasing the catch.”

The suggestion was spoken with such quiet assurance that Prowl had obeyed before he’d even thought about it. It wasn’t logical, but the order appeared to have bypassed his logic circuits, and at that particular moment he couldn’t have cared less.

The clip made its usual snapping sound, and the two segments of his spike cover slid aside. Prowl gasped as his equipment hit the air. It felt freezing. He knew it wasn’t, but compared with the steaming heat behind his armour anything would feel cold.

Then Smokescreen took a hold of his spike, and Prowl no longer knew which way was up.

He’d held his spike before, had made it pressurise and depressurise out of purely academic interest, but Prowl had never felt anything like this. Waves of heat and cold shuddered through him, arousal chased by a flood of coolant. Circuits came alive, and dormant programming activated. Head back, he stared sightlessly up, unable to do anything but feel as his instructor slowly stroked him.

Too soon, the charge exceeded the capacity of his frame and the energy released in a rapid flood that sent him straight into a hard reboot.

He was out for half an astrosecond, but recovery took far longer.

Still tingly, still warm, but suffused with a strange and slightly confusing kind of contentment, Prowl allowed Smokescreen to sit him down. He sighed, hardly noticing the action of his vents and the pings as his components cooled. He was too busy watching Smokescreen wipe the spilled fluid from his spike and its housing, his attention consumed by the little tremors that worked their way through him with every movement Smokescreen made.

“Beautiful,” Smokescreen commented. “Now, about that polish…”


	3. Session 3

  
**Session 3**   


The third day, Prowl looked more nervous than he had at their first meeting. But he didn’t object as Smokey greeted him with a light embrace and a lingering caress. If anything, he seemed to welcome it, but his own hands were shaking and his doors hung low.

“I’m not sure about this,” he said, as they entered the recharge room.

Smokey ran a finger along the edge of a door, earning himself a pleasing shiver. “What aren’t you sure about?” he said.

Prowl looked stricken. “This?” He shrugged. “Interfacing. I fail to comprehend how this kind of physical intimacy will aid me in my career.”

It didn’t sound like a lie, but it certainly wasn’t the whole of the truth. Smokey nudged the door shut behind him and dimmed the lights. Now wasn’t the time to get into a debate, especially not one which Smokey was certain he’d lose even though he knew that he was right. No, now was time for another demonstration.

“I’d like to kiss you,” he said.

“Huh? What? How?”

Smokey stepped closer. “Like this.” He dropped to his knees and pressed his lips to Prowl’s spike cover. The effect was immediate; Prowl gasped, and his systems hummed audibly with a fresh flow of coolant. He clasped Smokey’s helm, his fingers brushing against the sensitive edges of the chevron, but didn’t try to push him away.

“Let me show you how good it can be,” Smokey said. He wormed his glossa along the sensitive seam at the side of the spike housing. Prowl moaned, a sound that only increased in intensity as Smokescreen slid his hands up the insides of Prowl’s thighs. His fingertips came to rest against his charge’s valve cover, and the resultant shudder was strong enough to rattle his bolts.

“Will you…” Prowl stopped to cough the static from his voice. “Do you want to interface with me? I mean now. Today.”

“If you’re ready,” Smokey answered, although he knew it wasn’t quite what Prowl wanted to hear. He was nervous, that was clear enough, although whether he was afraid of the process itself, the potential for underperformance or some other anxiety, Smokey wasn’t sure. “Do you think you’re ready?” he asked, knowing full well the answer was no.

“I doubt it,” Prowl replied, and a little blush of heat radiated out from Smokey’s chevron as Prowl stroked it. “I don’t know if I’ll ever be ready. I don’t know if there’s any point in me being ready.”

“We’ll see,” Smokey said, and pressed his chevron more firmly into Prowl’s touch. “I like that. Will you do it again?”

Prowl nodded, and Smokey sighed. That really was good. Enough so that his own hardware began to heat up, his ‘facing routines coming online. Prowl tweaked the metal and Smokey gasped.

“Oh frag yes,” he said before Prowl could think he’d done something wrong and stop. “Keep doing that.” He nuzzled the seams of Prowl’s spike cover, seeking after the sensors as his own valve began to ache.

It wasn’t long before Prowl’s spike cover retracted, and his spike emerged.

“Oh blast!” Prowl wailed, and if Smokey hadn’t already known that it was automatic, that would have told him. “I didn’t mean to, I mean that wasn’t intentional, I-”

“Mmmm,” Smokey murmured, and cut off any further protests by wrapping his lips around the tip of Prowl’s spike.

Prowl squeaked, and then groaned as Smokey took the spike further in. It was always good, watching the shock turn to awe, feeling the heat rise and the spike thrum in his mouth while sparks grounded through his glossa. Mechs like Prowl never expected it, not because they thought it was unacceptable, but because they thought it just wasn’t a part of their world.

Smokey liked to prove them wrong.

He moaned around the spike as Prowl gripped his chevron a little too hard. He could have done without the pain, but what it signified was just plain wonderful. The abandonment of pragmatism for sensuality, desires awakened that Prowl had almost certainly been ignoring, if not suppressing, for as long as he’d been online.

Then Smokey drew back, and Prowl’s frustrated moan was pure gratification.

“I’d like you to spike me,” Smokey said. He stood and took a hold of Prowl’s waist; his charge’s blue optics were stunned. “I’d _really_ like you to spike me.”

Prowl nodded. “I’m not sure…” he said, but didn’t resist as Smokey led him to the recharge station and encouraged him to lie down. The sight of his virgin spike made Smokey’s valve clench, the ache intensifying to a steady, needy thrum. Frag, he loved his job.

“You like what I did just now?” Smokey asked.

Prowl nodded, his optics brightening and the heat coming off him in waves. Smokey grinned and straddled him, leaning briefly to lick the mounting of one of his headlamps.

“Then you’ll like this,” Smokey said. He didn’t have to worry about his own hardware being ready; he straightened up, and used his hand to align their components. Prowl arched his back, hands clasping at the bunk; Smokey’s grin widened. “You ready?” he said.

Prowl’s engine roared, but his voice was strained. “I have no idea!”

“Is that so?” Smokey said. He eased the tip of Prowl’s spike just inside his valve, and oh Primus that felt good. Then he paused. “I guess there’s only one way to find out.”

“Uhuh!” Prowl managed. He bucked his hips, edging his spike a little deeper, and Smokey let him, encouraged him to do it again. He took Prowl’s hands and placed them on his hips, showed Prowl how to guide him, how to set the pace. And with each thrust the spike went deeper, his valve expanding and rippling and thrumming and _wow_.

It was good. Regardless of technique – or the lack of it – the first time was always something to savour. The awe again, the desire, everything Prowl had exhibited when Smokey had taken him into his mouth, but more so. The knowledge that he was Prowl’s first, that this mech would enjoy his induction into a world of pleasures he would otherwise have ignored.

And more; the anticipation that he would be the first to take Prowl in the valve.

It never lasted long, but as Prowl arched in overload, his optics flickering and his fingers tight around Smokey’s hips, there was satisfaction in being the one to have brought that on.

Smokey didn’t climax, but he hadn’t expected to. This wasn’t about his pleasure – that was incidental, although nice when it happened. It was about Prowl, and judging by the wide grin and less-than-focused look to Prowl’s optics, Smokey had achieved his aim.

* * * 

 

Prowl hadn’t known it could be that good. Every description of overload he’d read had come with a ream of warnings about potential systems shutdowns and brownouts and sensor net malfunctions. The manual hadn’t said anything about processor-blowing pleasure, or the satisfied glow that seemed to issue from his interface circuits and invade every single part of his body.

Even yesterday, when Smokescreen had taken him in hand and made him climax for the first time, it hadn’t been like this. He shivered, and watched as Smokescreen cleaned them both up. Then he shuffled over, for once wishing that he’d chosen a larger bunk, and made space for his instructor to lie beside him.

“Enjoy that?” Smokescreen asked. He lay on his side, and propped his head on his hand. His uppermost doorwing swayed contentedly.

Prowl nodded. “Did you?” It was a silly thing to ask, considering Smokescreen’s capacity here, but he felt better for having done so.

“I sure did,” Smokescreen replied. Then he leaned over and kissed Prowl on the mouth.

Another set of new sensations, and Prowl was surprised to find that he enjoyed these too. It wasn’t just the slide of a lubricated glossa, or the taste of Smokescreen’s lips, but the closeness of him, the press of his bumper against Prowl’s hood, the warmth of his arms and the comforting buzz of his energy field.

It went on for an age. Prowl didn’t bother checking his chronometer. He didn’t want the two joors to end. When they did, he’d be alone again with his thoughts until the next day, with ample time to talk himself out of any further intimacy.

He didn’t want to talk himself out of it, not now. He wanted to continue, to lay under Smokescreen joor after joor and explore the things he never realised his frame and programming could do.

The thought made his spike thrum, and with some slight consternation he realised that not only had he failed to retract it and replace the cover, but it had repressurised all by itself.

He must have exhibited some sign of stress because Smokescreen disengaged. “What’s wrong?” he said. Then he glanced down at Prowl’s spike, and a very different smile lit up his face. “Mmm, we can make use of that.”

“We can?” Prowl said, and realised how stupid it sounded the nanosec it was out of his mouth. “I mean, you’d like to? It won’t make you late for another appointment?”

“You go on top,” Smokescreen said, apparently dismissing the questions.

Prowl complied, although his legs had the consistency of warm rubber and his arms weren’t much better. Still, it was rather nice to see Smokescreen spread out beneath him.

“Touch me,” Smokescreen said. “Any way you like.”

Prowl nodded, and thought back to the things Smokescreen had done with him. How was this meant to go? But his spike ached, and all he could think of was penetration, connection, overload. It didn’t help.

Still, Smokescreen’s armour gleamed, providing an invitation of its own, and Prowl decided that his first step should be to touch. Smokescreen’s frame was very similar to his own, and he traced the familiar lines of transformation seams, bringing his glossa into play where his fingers weren’t quite enough. Smokescreen sighed and squirmed, giving little words of encouragement and flaring his energy field. And gradually, slowly, Prowl got closer to his most intimate hardware.

“Keep touching me,” Smokescreen said. “Gently… go slow.”

Slow, all right. Prowl stroked Smokescreen’s valve cover, a little disappointed that it was closed. But it didn’t take much urging to get it open again, just a stroke to the seams, a kiss on the inside of Smokescreen’s thigh.

“Keep going,” Smokescreen urged, and there was a new tightness in his voice, a burr of static that hadn’t been there before. Prowl took it for additional encouragement, and tentatively stroked the outer rim of Smokescreen’s valve.

The response made his fans roar and his interface circuits buzz. Smokescreen sighed and parted his thighs further. He angled his hips up, straining towards Prowl’s fingers. Prowl continued to stoke him, marvelling at the slickness of the lubricant, the enticing scent of it which mingled pleasantly with Smokescreen’s usual new-polish smell.

Not only that, but his fingers tingled with each new cluster of sensors they encountered. He explored a little deeper, first with one finger, then two as Smokescreen threw his arms above his head and murmured his approval. So many sensors, no wonder it felt so good. So many points of connection, so many different nodes to send screaming into overload.

It occurred to him then that Smokescreen probably hadn’t attained climax earlier. But perhaps he would now, if Prowl was careful enough.

“Spike me?” Smokescreen suggested, and all thought of doing anything else vanished from Prowl’s mind.

It had only been a short while, half a joor at the most, since Prowl’s first experience with spike interfacing, but it was as though he was new to it all over again. It was different, being on top, and even more so for being in control. There was a small part of him that was terrified. He knew so little about this, the manual hadn’t prepared him at all; a dozen what-ifs flitted through his mind, all focused on the one horrible idea that he could get this all so very wrong.

But Smokescreen was waiting, open and inviting just for him. And the thought hit him that it didn’t matter what he got wrong. Smokescreen would see him right, he was _paid_ to see him right.

Smokescreen was so much more than the good time bot Prowl had expected.

Prowl’s circuits sizzled. His spike – and now his valve too – ached in time with the thud of coolant washing around his frame. It was time to stop stalling and do what he already knew he’d enjoy. He made a small adjustment to the angle of his hips, and pushed forward every so slowly.

Oh Primus, that was wonderful. The slight compression of his spike, the welcoming slick heat. The thrill as nodes connected and charge soared.

And it was a mutual enjoyment if Smokescreen’s expression was to be believed. Prowl leaned heavily on his hands, and watched his instructor’s face. Then Smokescreen wrapped his legs around Prowl’s thighs and tugged him deeper.

“Ugh! Oh wow… Mmmm!” For once, Prowl didn’t care if he made any sense. It was all too utterly, thoroughly enjoyable to get hung up on that.

Especially when Smokescreen squeezed around him. The heat was tremendous, and the pressure and the friction. It prompted jolts of pleasure all through his interface array and made his armour buzz.

And as for his own valve, it throbbed as though in sympathy, aching with each smooth thrust of his spike. The walls rippled as fresh, warm lubricant pooled on the inside of his cover.

His overload caught him by surprise, a massive flood of current sweeping up through his frame from his spike, as the spike itself discharged heavily into that hot, tight space. If Prowl had thought the last time was good, it paled in comparison with this. The energy, the release, the rush; no wonder people did this for recreation.

“More!” Smokescreen cried, and grabbed Prowl by the hips. He yanked himself onto the spike, quick and rough as his valve clenched and his lips curved in a smile of absolute ecstasy. “Oh frag yeah!” he panted. “Just like that!” He tensed, and Prowl groaned as the valve shivered around him. It was obvious what phase Smokescreen had reached, but still it was a shock that made Prowl’s circuits sizzle all over again; he had never realised what a joy it was to bring someone else so much pleasure.

At last, Smokescreen came to a stop. His hands were light again on Prowl’s hips, and though his valve continued to contract, the movements were shallower, mirroring the lesser sparks of pleasure still lighting up Prowl’s circuits.

Prowl drew in a ragged vent. “I think,” he said, “I need to lie down.”

* * *

Smokey stayed a joor longer than planned. The way he saw it, holding Prowl afterwards, stroking him, kissing him, hugging him tight as their engines subconsciously synchronised and their energy fields overlapped… all that was just as important as bringing him to overload.

He didn’t disentangle them until Prowl’s systems had fully recovered, and his wide grin had muted to a contented smile. That was the kind of mood he could maintain, Smokey thought, and he truly hoped that Prowl would.

“19:00 joors tomorrow?” he asked, as he went to leave.

“That’s later than usual,” Prowl said, then appeared to check himself. “Of course, the half-cycle session, I’d forgotten. Yes, 19:00 joors will be fine.” His smile faltered for a moment, but a quick embrace and a light kiss were enough to bring it back.

“Good,” Smokey said. “I look forward to it.”


	4. Session 4

  
**Session 4**   


Despite Smokey’s hopes, by 19:00 joors the following day Prowl’s inhibitions had begun to seep back. He looked nervous, even more so than the day before; his doors moved jerkily while his engine idled at an odd and whining pitch. It was nothing conscious, but he was certainly less comfortable than he had been before.

“What’s the matter?” Smokey said. He waited for the lock to click home behind him, then lay a hand on Prowl’s arm. “You OK?”

“It’s nothing,” Prowl replied. To Smokey’s surprise, he didn’t pull away; he even attempted a faint smile.

“Nothing, my aft,” Smokey said. “C’mon, let’s crack open a cube and talk about it.”

“A cube?” Prowl echoed. “You mean high grade?”

Smokey nodded. Prowl’s creator had given him a long list of Prowl’s likes and dislikes, and occasional mild overcharge had appeared under the category of likes. “Triple distilled,” Smokey said. “Seeker grade, all the way from Vos.” Another of Prowl’s likes that his creator had supplied.

“Really?” Prowl didn’t perk up as much as Smokey had hoped, but his engine gave a little rev. “Thankyou. I, um…”

Smokey smiled; it was so tempting to pull Prowl into a tight embrace and see if he could coax out the mech’s spike right here in the hallway, but that wasn’t likely to get Prowl talking, even if it would help with his mood. So he let the silence grow, inviting Prowl to fill it.

Eventually, Prowl sighed. “A drink would be nice,” he said.

He went automatically for the living area, but Smokey managed to steer him towards his recharge instead. The bunk was already down – or still down from the night before – and the lights were so dim their optics glowed.

Smokey pulled two cubes from his subspace. Like their optics, the energon also glowed, and a fog of rich and heavy fumes rose to fill Smokey’s vents.

“Here,” he said, and passed a small cube to Prowl. “To you.” He cracked open his own cube and took a sip. Rolling it around his mouth to savour the taste, he waited for Prowl to speak. But Prowl simply smiled that shy, quick smile of his and downed a quarter of the cube at once.

All right, perhaps nervous had been an understatement.

“You had fun yesterday?” Smokey asked. His assigned a portion of his processing power to re-calibrating his plans for the night. It didn’t look as though he’d be able to pick up where they’d left off before; a few contingency measures might be necessary.

“Thankyou,” Prowl said. “It was highly enjoyable. I just… I…” He hid his lips behind the cube, but didn’t drink any more.

“You saw how good it was for me,” Smokey said. He recalled the intensity of his overload, coming hard around Prowl’s spike, his valve overfull and the fluid seeping onto the bunk. His spike twitched at the thought, and his doors swayed. “It can be that good for you, just let me show you.”

“It’s not that,” Prowl said. He glanced around, as though looking for a place to sit, but when Smokey patted the bunk beside him he remained standing. “I mean, it is that, somewhat, but not only that. I… I’m so sorry, I don’t think we should do this.”

“Why?” Smokey said softly. He stood and gently lifted Prowl’s cube from his unresisting fingers. He tweaked his energy field and allowed to the flare lightly over Prowl’s chassis; Prowl shivered. “What’s worrying you?”

“I’m not sure how to put this,” Prowl said. He had that stricken look again, as though battling with himself over something he couldn’t quite puzzle through.

Smokey put the cubes on a shelf and took Prowl’s hands in his own. “Tell me.”

Prowl gave a quick nod, then took a long, slow vent. “It’s the manual,” he blurted.

“The manual?” This wasn’t going where Smokey had thought it would.

“The one I’ve got, from… when my hardware was installed. It’s insufficient. It doesn’t describe all the steps, and there’s so much missing and I went looking for something more complete, but everything’s so… confusing, there’s so much, I never knew-”

“OK,” Smokey whispered. He brought Prowl’s hands to his lips and sucked gently on one of his thumbs. Immediately, Prowl stopped talking. “Forget the manual,” Smokey said. He licked along the curve between Prowl’s thumb and his index finger. “It doesn’t matter.”

“It doesn’t?” Prowl said.

“Course not,” Smokey replied. He dipped his own finger in his cube and dabbed it in the centre of Prowl’s lower lip. “You can’t learn interfacing from a manual.”

Prowl’s optics rebooted, a little flicker that made Smokey’s circuits sing. Then Smokey leaned forward and licked the energon from Prowl’s mouth.

It developed exactly as Smokey had planned. First a tingling brush of the lips, then a kiss that only deepened as the moments passed. Prowl was bolder this time, but still reticent. He held Smokey’s waist without prompting and leaned into the embrace, but his hands didn’t stray. Still, it was sweet and tender and thoroughly enjoyable.

“OK,” Smokey said, when Prowl’s fans had kicked in and his vents came fast and warm. “You like that, yeah?”

Prowl nodded, that shy smile making another brief appearance.

“You like being touched?” Smokey revved his engine, and the vibrations made his spike tingle.

“It’s good,” Prowl whispered.

“And here,” Smokey said, as his fingers danced lightly over Prowl’s spike casing. “You like being touched here?”

This time, Prowl’s answering nod was far more emphatic.

“And here…” Smokey reached further down to slide the tips of two fingers over Prowl’s heated valve cover. “You like this?”

Prowl made a strangled noise, nothing like a ‘yes’ or ‘no’, but he didn’t move away and his hands tightened around Smokey’s waist.

“I’d like you to lie down for me,” Smokey said.

Prowl stared, a flash of panic evident in his wide optics. But he did as he was told, and lay flat on his back on the bunk, his knees together and hands by his sides.

“Gorgeous.” Smokey smiled. He knelt on the floor and trailed a finger from Prowl’s knees up between his thighs. “Now open your legs.”

There was a moment’s resistance, a hint of fear, and Smokey wasn’t sure if it was penetration Prowl was concerned about, or all manner of things he might have read in any of the thousands of unofficial ‘facing manuals a bot could get hold of nowadays. Whichever, Prowl appeared to overcome it, and his thighs parted just enough.

“Good,” Smokey said. Primus, Prowl’s cover was hot. And ready, by the feel of it; the minute vibrations of machinery held in stasis travelled through the metal and into Smokey’s fingers. “Now draw back your hatch.”

It took a while, and much coaxing and stroking on Smokey’s part, but finally the cover slid back and Prowl lay exposed before him. It was a damned fine sight. Smokey smiled. “I’m going to touch you,” he said. “I want you to tell me how it feels.”

“Uhuh!” Prowl gasped, and his entire frame tensed. His valve too, squeezing tightly shut at the first brush of Smokey’s fingers. There was a little lubricant, and Smokey spread it around, covering the components in a slick, protective layer.

“How is that?” Smokey prompted.

“Strange!” Prowl snapped. “And kind of, um, oh Primus there! Oh… Yes, just there, please!”

Slowly, Smokey caressed the node. Each circling movement made Prowl shiver and sigh, each slide of his fingers prompted an incremental relaxation and a fresh seep of lubricant.

“You like that?” Smokey asked, and Prowl’s approval was undeniable.

* * *

Prowl wasn’t sure how he’d ended up on his back with his instructor’s fingers drawing a multiplicity of hot, sparking pleasures from him with each tiny movement. He panted for air, his hands balled into fists and clawing at the cover of his bunk. He could remember each stage with perfect clarity, but still it made no sense how he could have gone from reading so much confusing, conflicting and downright worrying information to laying here with his legs spread and Smokescreen doing such wonderful things to him.

Then Smokescreen told him to relax, and said something about the next stage, and Prowl’s ventilation could no longer keep up with his rising temperature.

Oh scrap, his instructor’s fingers were pushing inside him. Two, by the feel of it, and not very far, but getting deeper and oh scrap scrap scrap that felt strange! He wasn’t sure he liked it, but every few astroseconds those fingers would catch on something utterly, thoroughly thrilling, and he was convinced in those moments that he _did_ like it, in fact he liked it very much, and he really didn’t want his instructor to stop.

And oh Primus but a whole thirty astroseconds had passed and Smokescreen’s fingers were pulling out, then sliding back in with a tantalising friction that stole the air from Prowl’s vents.

He was suddenly glad that he’d had the seal removed upon installation. The technician had decided it for him, with his nasty sly wink and whispered hints that some mechs liked the intensity of breaking in new hardware, that others came back again and again to have their seals renewed. It had sounded so sordid. Not at all like this.

Prowl gasped anew as Smokescreen spread his fingers, and a sharp ache began to build, a new heat. Smokescreen urged him to relax, and he tried, but he wasn’t sure he could with those fingers inside him, with the new movements of unfamiliar gears, the spiralling of parts deep within his valve.

Then Smokescreen’s fingers caught on something new, and Prowl was crying out before he knew what he was saying, an urgent stream of ‘ _please_ ’ and ‘Primus yes, there, _there!_ ’. He heard Smokescreen’s engine rev, felt his fingers shift until again they hit on that one, marvellous spot, and Prowl groaned with the agony of it, the bliss, the feeling that he was stuck on the edge of a precipice, unable to go back but equally unable to fall.

“Perfect,” Smokescreen whispered, and Prowl bucked, the bliss exploding out, rattling through his frame and quivering into every last micron of his being. His valve clenched hard, squeezing on the fingers, and his whole interface array felt as though it had been seeped in oil and warmed until it was on the verge of melting.

“Was that…” he panted, but his words turned into a moan as Smokescreen slowly withdrew his fingers.

“Sure was,” Smokescreen said, without asking exactly what Prowl meant. Prowl assumed he knew, just like he knew when to push and when to draw back. Just like he knew exactly which parts to stroke and when to stop.

Smokescreen leaned over him and kissed him softly on the lips. “I’m going to enter you now,” he said, and Prowl froze up, a sudden panic spilling into him as though injected with the fresh wash of coolant. But Smokescreen only kissed him again. “It’ll be easier for you, now you’ve overloaded.”

Prowl nodded. This had to happen, he had to go through with it. Not just for his creator, but for himself. The overload had been stunning, so intense and satisfying. And sure, he could limit himself to manual stimulation, or to always being the one to penetrate, but it was illogical to rob himself of the potential for enjoying other pleasures. No matter how worried he was.

He was glad Smokescreen didn’t ask him if he was ready.

Prowl allowed his instructor to draw his knees apart. His valve clamped shut, not as tightly as before, but certainly not wide enough to admit even one finger, let alone a spike. And hot scrap, Prowl shouldn’t have looked as Smokescreen climbed onto the bunk. Fingers just didn’t compare. It was colourful too, and textured.

He tried not to think about how it would fit; that only brought him back to thoughts of the manual and the dry and completely un-erotic descriptions of how wide the various brands of valve could expand.

He flinched when Smokescreen touched his thighs, but forced himself to lie still. It would be good, he thought, he just had to get used to it. It wasn’t as though the mech had even tried to enter him yet. And if he didn’t like it, Smokescreen would stop. He had no doubts on that score. They would stop, and he could try again later. They had all night.

“So nervous,” Smokescreen commented and Prowl’s vocaliser squeaked as a single fingertip eased gently inside him.

He resisted. Not by conscious intent, but simply because he didn’t know how to force that part of himself to relax. Still, Smokescreen stroked him, urging his components to expand, his gears to shift. Prowl shuddered, marvelling at how quickly his hardware responded, how soon he was able to admit a second finger. Then the fingers were gone and Smokescreen was leaning over him, his blue eyes blazing, and Prowl could feel the tip of his spike push slowly past his rim.

He gripped the bunk hard, his doorwings flumping as they tried in vain to move. The heat was incredible, the pressure too. He didn’t think he could take it, but just as he had that thought Smokescreen withdrew. Prowl relaxed automatically, and Smokescreen chose exactly that moment to make a shallow thrust back inside him.

“Oh frag frag frag!” Prowl howled, but Smokescreen didn’t stop. Each withdrawal fooled his systems into relaxing a little more, and each thrust brought Smokescreen’s spike further inside him, expanding him, stretching him. He moaned with each new sensation; he grabbed Smokescreen’s doors, stroked his face, seized his waist and tried to tug him deeper.

It hit the ache, and it did it oh so perfectly. Prowl didn’t realise until Smokescreen’s spike was fully sheathed, but this is what his hardware had wanted. What _he_ had wanted. Memory files opened, thoughts of mechs he’d found attractive, urges he’d ignored because he simply didn’t have the time to indulge them.

Perhaps now, he’d make time.

* * *

Smokey’s spike was in paradise. Prowl was so tight, so nervous and needy and so very slick. He was at one and the same time beautifully uncertain and gorgeously wanton, resisting when he didn’t mean to, opening up without conscious thought. Given practice, he’d make an excellent lover, but for now he was simply delightful in and of himself.

But delightful as he was, Smokey knew that Prowl was unlikely to overload a second time simply by having a spike massage his internal nodes. No, something more was required, something to make this the most memorable of Prowl’s inductions.

He cupped Prowl’s spike cover, the heat searing his palm. “Open,” he said, and the cover sprang back. The spike jutted up, gleaming with lubricant and vibrating hard with the revolutions of Prowl’s engine.

Prowl moaned, head back, and Smokey began to stroke the spike just out of synch with his thrusts. Prowl’s valve clenched and his spike thrummed. So much input. Too much, Smokey thought as Prowl’s pleas became louder, his limbs tense and body writhing. He tilted his hips, then began to buck them in time with the thrusts of Smokey’s spike. His valve clenched, and this time – Smokey was certain of it – he did it on purpose.

Smokey held out as long as he could, his optics on Prowl’s spike, his senses attuned for that change in ventilation, that crisp readiness of the nodes sliding against his palm that would tell him Prowl was close to fulfilment.

It didn’t take long, the hot spurt of fluid falling on his hand, the wordless cry and moment of complete and utter stillness. Smokey too held still, pausing everything as the overload blazed out from his spike, and the fluid spilled along with the current.

* * *

Prowl thought it would be the end, but it was only the beginning. A while to rest, refuel, talk a little about his impressions, his newfound preferences. Smokescreen checked his equipment, held him, stroked his doors. Then another delicious joor of teasing, a chance to explore his own frame, and Smokescreen’s, in more detail. It was only a small leap from that to a simple request, _again_ , and Smokescreen obligingly filled him.

Morning came too soon.

“You know,” Prowl said, as Smokescreen prepared to leave. “I’m not sure I’ve quite got the hang of all this.”

Smokescreen leant against the wall and laughed. “Really?” he said.

Prowl nodded. “I think perhaps another session or two…” He couldn’t lie to his creator, he would need to take over the payment of Smokescreen’s fees. But he could very easily lie to himself. “The instruction would be beneficial.”

Smokescreen grinned. “Same time tomorrow?”


	5. Epilogue

**Epilogue: several thousand vorns later, at the beginning of the war**

Prowl strode down the corridor, optics on his datapad. No point watching where he walked; nowadays, people got out of his way. He was too busy to mind his steps, but even if he wasn’t they wouldn’t want to stop and talk. Not to him.

He’d known command would be hard, but he hadn’t thought it would be lonely. Showed how much he knew.

He erased the thought before it could save to hard storage, and dug around in his subspace for the key to his office.

“Sir?”

Prowl’s engine hitched. He hadn’t noticed he wasn’t alone. He turned the datapad off and rebooted his optics while his alt mode sensors ran a scan. Praxan, a vorn or so older than him, bright paint and a brighter smile. _It couldn’t be…_

“I know you,” he said.

The mech nodded. “Smokescreen,” he said. “Diversionary tactician.” He held out a slip of plastic. “I’ve been transferred from Kalis.”

Prowl skimmed the orders and tucked the chit behind his datapad. His tanks churned. “You’d better come in,” he said.

He took his time settling down. His frame was alive, his circuits blazing. This couldn’t be the mech his creator had hired all those vorns ago. And yet the smile was the same, that easy-going manner, even the fresh-polish smell of him.

“You look good,” Smokescreen said, and Prowl was afraid his engine would stall. “I was glad when the powers that be said I was going to Iacon. I hoped I might run into you.”

“We,” Prowl began, then gave up. He sat heavily in his chair, and tried in vain to remember that he wasn’t the inexperienced young graduate any more. “There are protocols,” he said. “Rules to do with, uh, _fraternisation_.”

“That’s fine,” Smokescreen said. He slid out of his chair and leaned against Prowl’s desk. “Take another look at the orders. I’m a day early, you’re not my CO until 12:00 joors tomorrow.”

This time, Prowl’s engine did stall, but he didn’t notice. It was hard to with Smokescreen stroking his chevron, tilting his head back to kiss him full on the mouth.

It had been too long. Not because Prowl didn’t want it, but because he genuinely didn’t have time, or because everyone he was attracted to or who was attracted to him was forbidden to him by military law. The old customs and cultures had been swept away, and a joyless new regime stood in their place.

“You were my favourite,” Smokescreen said. “Of everyone. Frag, I miss those times. When’s your shift up?”

“Fifteen astroseconds ago,” Prowl replied. He disengaged long enough to lock the office door. “Are you sure about this?”

Smokescreen grinned and tugged Prowl close. “We’ve got eleven joors,” he said. “Let’s make the most of them.”


End file.
